“Good, because we’re on our way to the sheriff’s office to give these files back to Sandy so he can read them—and did I mention that Tommi, female, by the way, and owner-operator of the strip club, is the sheriff’s sister?”
“Wow.”
“Yep.”
“A dick.”
I drove on, my diversion not having worked.
—
I laid the files on Sandburg’s desk. “Richard’s not here?”
“Probably out rogering the countryside.”
I glanced at my undersheriff, then back to Sandy, and continued. “If you could make copies of these files for us, that’d be great.”
The sheriff smiled at Vic and buzzed a secretary in, handing her the files. “One copy of all of these, Brenda.”
“Two.”
He nodded to the woman, swiveled in his leather chair, and looked at Vic. “So, is there anybody working over in Absaroka County?”
She propped her feet onto his handsome, vintage mahogany desk. “We’ve got people for that, kind of like you’ve got people to read your reports for you.”
He stared at her boots but gave it up when it had no effect. “Well, we have a little more business over here—”
“Obviously more than you can handle.”
He glanced up at me. “You wanna call her off?”
“I wish I knew how.” I went ahead and sat in the other visitor’s chair, not putting my boots on his desk, figuring there was only so much the poor guy could take. “Sandy, how involved do you think your sister is in all of this?”
“All of what?”
Vic interrupted. “Whatever.”
He cleared his throat and thought about it as he pivoted back and forth in his chair. “She’s a rough cob, believe me I know, but I don’t think she’d be involved with anything that had to do with putting her girls in danger.” He laughed. “I ever tell you about the time we raided the place and brought everyone down here and arraigned them—she posted their bail and paid their fines with singles; the girls in accounting put on plastic gloves to count all the one-dollar bills.”
“Any other women ever disappear from there?”
He shook his head and kept his eyes on me. “You’re sure there’s a connection between Gerald Holman’s suicide and this missing stripper?”
“No, but I’m sure there’s a connection among the three missing women.”
His voice was derisive. “A serial killer?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He sighed and dropped a hand onto his blotter. “Because you know what a shitstorm that’s going to cause.” He shook his head. “I can see the stories in the News Record now—”
“I could be wrong.”
“You’re not.” Vic’s voice was sharp. “It’s possible that whoever he is, he hasn’t worked himself up to serial level, but he’s working on it; he’s borderline, one more and it’s official.”
Sandy shook his head. “He, huh?”
“Only fifteen percent of serial killers are women.” When I turned in my chair to look at her, she glanced back. “I assisted on a few cases in Philadelphia when I was going for my shield—before I gave it all up to herd cows with a cruiser.” She studied Sandy’s worried face. “Look, we could be wrong, but we’d be idiots not to approach this as a possibility in the investigative process.”
The door opened and Brenda returned, placing the original files with the copies on the sheriff’s desk and then quietly leaving in the silence.
Sandy shoved them toward me, picked up the originals, and dropped them in his lap to look through them. “Why didn’t Gerald report this to me, and why the hell didn’t Richard Harvey?”
Vic turned to me. “The dick?”
I nodded. “The dick.”
Sandy’s head came up. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
Vic stood, stuffing her hands in her jeans, and walked to her right where a large, matted, framed map of Campbell County hung on the wall. Her fingernail traced an area south and just a little east of Gillette. “All three are missing from this area; no more than twenty miles in radius.” She turned to look at him, her fists now on her hips. “You’re going to have to check and see if there are more.”
“I’ll put—”
“Don’t put Richard Harvey on it.”
He turned to look at me. “You really think Harvey is compromised?”
“Do I think he’s involved? No—but he’s not doing his best to come up with any answers, either. Is there anything you can do to get him out of our hair for a few days?”
He thought about it. “I’ve got an extradition of prisoner down to the psychiatric hospital in Evanston; that’s at least a day down and a day back.” He looked up at me. “Two days do it?”
I scooped the copies up from his desk. “Yep.”
“Or I could fire him.”
“Don’t do that. I think he’s a good man, just the wrong one for this job—maybe a little too close to Gerald or maybe somebody else?”
“But we’ll be a man short.” Sandy thought about it. “I could pull one of the guys from—”
“Actually . . .” They both looked at me as I thumbed the business card from my shirt pocket and held it out to him. “I’ve got someone in mind.”
—
Patrolman Dougherty was surprised to be placed on loan from the Gillette City Police Department to the Campbell County Sheriff and had been doubly confused when we told him he could show up in jeans and a sweater.
He glanced between Vic and me, standing in the tomb of the cold case files and looking through the wire mesh into the room proper. “Have you checked with my shift sergeant on this?”
I leaned on the chain link that protected the file area and pushed my hat back to get a little light on my face in an attempt to let him know I was serious. “I didn’t, but the sheriff spoke with your chief of police and he said we could have you.”
His eyes stayed on the rows and rows of dented, green metal file cabinets. “To do what?”
I handed him the three folders and stuffed the other set of copies under my arm. “We need you to look for any cases that might pertain to the individual who we think abducted Linda Schaffer, Roberta Payne, and Jone Urrecha.”
He looked at me. “You’re serious.”
Vic sat on the edge of Harvey’s desk and punched Dougherty’s cell number into her own. “As a heart attack.”
He glanced at Vic as she handed him back his cell phone. “You really think it’s the same guy?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
Walking over to the grating that held the mountain of files captive, he threaded his fingers into the wire. “How long do I have?”
“About forty-eight hours.”
His eyes widened. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
I handed him the keys to the door. “You said you wanted to help . . . By the way, if a tall guy with a handlebar mustache should show up, tell him you were sent down from administration to straighten the files.”
As Vic and I started for the steps, he called out after us. “What kind of connections am I looking for—what kind of suspect?”
Vic stopped and spoke over her shoulder. “Probably white, thirties to fifties, a loner with a reasonably high IQ involved with a menial job that he considers beneath him.”
His voice echoed after us as we climbed the stairs. “That would be me!”
She shouted back, “Well, then, put yourself on the list.”
At the top of the stairs, we buzzed ourselves out and turned the corner only to be confronted with Investigator Richard Harvey, standing in the hallway talking with another plainclothes officer.
As we approached, Harvey broke off the conversation and turned to face me, but Vic stepped between us and raised her hand. “Dick, so glad to meet you.”
He glanced at me, but then took her hand, looking more than a little confused. “Richard Harvey, sheriff’s investigator.”
“Special Agent Vic Moretti, I’m supervising the sheriff here.” She looked past him toward the outer office. “No offense, but you better scoot it up to Sandy Sandburg’s office; I think he’s got an assignment in connection with the Bureau that’s of utmost importance.”